Jesus mama, where’s my Play-doh?
You know the expression she has a trucker mouth? Well, I have spent very little time around trucks in my life. Back in Canada, kids don’t drive pickups as they do here in SoCal. No one I ever knew had a dad who rode a big rig. Heck, the closest I ever got to a truck was via the Grateful Dead.
So how on earth did it come to be that my mouth is dirtier than mud? For some reason, being mad is nowhere near as satisfying as being fucking mad. And calling someone a pain when you can call her a bitch just doesn’t seem worth it.
But when Little D came along (ok, maybe not right away, there was plenty of cursing around the house during the breastfeeding months), darling husband politely suggested that maybe we tone it down. He was really talking about me when he said we, but he’s that type of guy…
And frankly, I concurred. Swearing had become as declasse in my eyes as cigarettes, and I didn’t want to be one of those girls you could dress up but not take anywhere. It was time to tone it down.
I did my very best to replace fucking with freaking. And shit with shoot. And apparently everything else with…jesus. Not like taking-the-Lord’s-name-in-vain Jesus, more like under my breath, point of frustration with spills, skinned knees and soppy Cheerios in my bed…jesus (lower-case).
To me, that is progress. Major progress. Every time I caught myself and my tongue and let out a “freaking”, I beamed with pride. I was a good mother, after all. I was a role model. There would be no soapy mouths in this household.
Until one day, not too long ago. Picture Little D playing away contentedly in her room. Sunlight pouring in through the window. Pink dollhouse perched up in the corner like a vision of suburban splendor. And as I step away into the living room, silently smiling at the vision of my little angel, she bellows, in a not-so-sweet rendition of her little 2-yr-old voice: “JESUS MAMA, WHERE’S MY PLAY-DOH?”